


Where Will I Be This Time Tomorrow

by ReditusIgnotum (howcomeyoubehavethisway)



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Gen, I don't know what I'm doing, Light Angst, Set somewhere between the late 70's and early 80's, Superpowers, public hatred of superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:27:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howcomeyoubehavethisway/pseuds/ReditusIgnotum
Summary: Gifted (or cursed, depending on who you ask) with peculiar origins and bizarre abilities,the members of Queen face the demons that wait for them outside their doors and inside their hearts.





	1. Yesterday, my life was in ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from lyrics of "Doing Alright" by Queen

“Will you quit staring off into space and help me get this kit ready?”

Brian jumped at the almost shrill voice that interrupted his thoughts. He turned away from the window and casted an exasperated glare towards Roger, who hefted a couple of drums stacked on top of each other until they practically towered over his head. Brian stood and lifted the tall weight from his friend's arms, his shoe pushing the door against the wall to allow Roger more room to walk into.

“I'm sorry ‘bout that.” He says as he heads to the doorway that flanks the kitchen- the band's unofficial practice room for the time being.

“It's fine.” Roger huffs half-heartedly as the tension now dissipated from his shoulders. He follows him to the room and places the rest of the set on the tiled floor. “What were you doing, anyway? Trying to get to the moon?”

“I don't think about the galaxies all the time, Rog.” It's Brian's turn to grimace. “I was just… distracted by the outdoors. I don't even know how to get back there by myself. It's not what I do.” 

In fact, he spotted a small squirrel tumble its way up a wrinkly old tree. The earthly critter looked rather adorable as its fac3 scrunched up in determination while its small claws gripped the bits of wood. Yes, he missed the vast wisps of stars outside, but he'd be lying if he said he hated the earth.

A weak fist hits his shoulder. “Stop taking everything I say seriously. God, I was just joking around!”

“It's extremely hard to do that when it's you.” 

Roger scoffs with a laugh before he disappears into the kitchen, once again leaving his bandmate in the company of his thoughts. The sunlight that gleamed through the window was a welcome warmth on his skin, in fact, something he preferred more than the cool evening air that still seeped through his fingertips no matter how many layers of coats he buried himself in. The others would have laughed: A man forged by the remnants of a galaxy ranking the day above his own home? That was ridiculous.

Well, the galaxies were home, but that did not mean the earth could not also accept him as its own, that he wasn't allowed to bask in the warmth of the sun, of a morning cup of coffee, of his friends’ gazes and hearty embraces. Whether or not it was the night or the day that claimed him, he felt at peace.

“Hey, Bri!” Was Roger's clamor from the kitchen. “The food's ain't gonna finish itself, you know!”

A small grin manages to curve his lips upward.

* * *

It is time for the night's embrace, so Brian slips out of his bed, careful not to stir Roger awake from the one across his, and heads to the flat's rooftop.

The place is silent, save for the sole of his shoes brushing against the hard floor. He should have brought his telescope with him, but he feared it would make too much noise and accidentally start a fire- both metaphorically and physically- in his room. Besides, all he needed to touch the stars for was himself. 

The cool evening air whipped around his outstretched hand. Then he reached deeper, past the heart made of muscle, and into the stars above him. Every celestial body radiated with a warmth that exceeded that of the heaters at the flat, and even provided a perfect solace against the winter. At that moment, he wanted to fly. He could, if he wanted to- a simple tug at the warmth of the cosmos could lift his shoes off of the floor. But he was content with his feet rooted to the ground. Besides, he wasn't the only one awake in the middle of the night.

That stupid irrational fear still lingered inside. That if he kept dancing with the stars for too long, he would fly away and never touch the ground again. The stars would feel he already served his purpose- if there was one to begin with- on earth for nearly three decades and whisk him away.

Three decades. Had he been human for that long? He thought being a creature of flesh and bone would slow time down, bore the blood out of his veins until he decided to rip away from this small vessel and reunite with the stars.

He was wrong. In three decades, he learned how much he could do, how much he could feel, how much he could  _ want.  _ From his family, he learned love and dedication, the latter manifesting as his beloved Red Special after weeks of hard work. From his studies, he learned how insignificant the others might have felt surrounded by his home, how  _ trapped  _ humans felt with only a few limbs that could barely envelop the entire planet, yet also how such a fact fuels the mind to want and know more and more of what's beyond.

And his bandmates- he could go on and on about how each of them taught him the human experience: Roger with the fire that not only unfurled out of his hands when he tried to manually boil an egg but also burned inside him as he thundered away on his drums or struggled against Brian's grip to confront some asshole in the bar. John with the crackling electricity that not only powered their equipment but jolted heated arguments back to reality. Freddie with the charm that curled into his voice and commanded the attention of the audience before them- a charm that he completely stripped away from his voice when they were back in their shared flat or when barbs were hurled towards each other, only to resurface in a venom-laced smile aimed at the fool who called them a plethora of rich words.

So, yes, he was afraid of flying, of losing them, of becoming a loose being that lost body and mind, lost the ability to think and love and realize that there is so much to do in so little space and time.

He lowers his hand, lets it fall and rest against his side, and walks back to the flat, not even caring if his return would earn him a scolding from a drowsy Roger.

* * *

Being a band made up of four superhumans (mutants, superheroes, freaks, whatever the press or the people on the sidewalk threw at them) wasn't easy. Fear of the unknown won over people's hearts, something that festered especially since there were so many of those unknown walking amongst them in this world. The four of them happened to be a part of that group.

Almost a decade earlier, in their first few months as a band, they could sing and play without the need to tell the people that they were inhuman. They could get away with it now, but the requirement of that horrid red stamp painted a large target that could be revealed with a single demand.

They trusted their audience, a family that numbered in the hundreds, perhaps a few of them found solace from the world's scorn, too. But it was the people who waited in the dark alleyways when the night came, ironically in the hours when Brian's home shone in its twinkling brilliance for the world to see. They did everything they could: triple-check their schedules, keep looking over their shoulders until their necks cramped, but for some reason the knowledge of their powers fell in the wrong hands.

The insults were too specific, too painful to be a drunkard's random shot in the dark. 

Freddie could try to talk them out of this, but even he had limits. Sometimes, the fear shook him to the point that his throat closed up and the words couldn't come out. The other three stood by his side, Roger and the embers of his wrath beginning to stir and ignite, John with his crackling, intense glare. And Brian's knowledge of the forces that held stars and planets together, pulls and pushes ready to arrive with the beckon of his fingers. 

Maybe the beings in the cosmos decided to blanket them with a darker night, maybe the man was too intoxicated to notice them ready to unleash what they had tried to hide, like taut springs ready to pounce. He simply turned and walked away, leaving them to shuffle back to the flat in silence.

Humanity may have taught Brian several things, but he can never understand their greed and their desire to harm. Would it be better if he stopped distancing himself from both earth and space?


	2. It's the mistier mists, the hazier days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title taken from "Drowse" by Queen

Roger was leaning against the doorway that descended from the rooftop when Brian turned to leave. He affixed a steady gaze at his friend, one that screamed  _ I'm a light sleeper, you idiot, I could practically hear you thinking since you snuck out of the room. _

He wonders if he somehow earned the power to read minds- Well, only Brian's, so far. Who knows, it might work on his otherworldly neighbors if he tried.

“Rog-” He began, but Roger lifted a hand and simply said-

“Let's just go back to sleep.” Frankly, he wasn't in the mood for another worthless argument that lead to the same end (read: nowhere) when he said this. If it was the fact that he already released the day's frustrations on the drums for the earlier recording session, or the alluring calls of sleep, he didn't care. He didn't want a repeat of the last few weeks where they spent the morning frantically searching for Brian only to find him here, fast asleep, leaning on his telescope as a cold, shaky pillow.

Brian’s eyes widened at this sudden change of a reply, but uttered nothing more than a hum as he followed him back to their room.

Roger never quite figured Brian out. He never understood how a literal mess of stardust coalesced into a living human being with functional organs and whatnot. Never understood how much his eyebrows still furrowed as he kept questioning and questioning until even Roger had to doubt himself.

As those soft breaths finally lilted from underneath the covers of the bed next to him, Roger wondered why he himself couldn't just accept this. The first thing to blame was the fire inside of him. Eternal, hungry for anything it could devour, whether it be tears or more conflict. There was no off button for the blinding red that seeped into his vision and amplified minor disturbances into looming obstacles.

It was hard to distinguish if it was him or the fire that was the cause or the effect. In fact, he never even figured out where Roger Taylor ended and the flames began, if they were separate entities at all.

It didn't help that several people saw them as one untameable demon, crooked open palms poised to engulf everything in its path.

* * *

The next morning, he tried to burn his frustrations under a pan that held an egg. As expected, it failed miserably. The flames bounced off of the bottom and dragged across the surface of the pan, narrowly missing the egg bouncing around the metal. The sudden burst of flames sent him falling on his elbow with a yelp. They had fortunately died down the moment they sprung up, but Roger hissed in pain as droplets of hot water fell on his skin.

“There's a reason why we have a stove in here, you know.” He looks up to find John's scrutinizing gaze looming over him.

“Right.” He slumped down from his position on the floor in defeat. With a hand on the marble countertop, he heaved himself up and placed the pan on the nearest surface.

There was no point in lying to John, any complaints of no power would've been easily solved with the man's ability, but Roger was just starving and found it difficult to think clearly in the morning.

John must have shared those same exact thoughts, all he did was sigh and take the handle into his hands, resuming where Roger left off but on the proper source of fire, this time. Roger had to admire the self-restraint that he carried, a seal that, when finally ripped away, revealed a brief yet blindingly sharp current of words.

The morning droned on rather silently, with the four of them gathered around the rickety wooden table he and Freddie found in the back corner of a store all those years ago. The band's early days were filled with adrenaline and joy, the hope of what could happen next coursing through their veins, but hardships and doubt grew in the shadow of their enthusiastic wildfires. Money was hard to find and even more to keep, especially with the twisted labyrinth constructed by record companies and managers.

They moved in together as a necessity back then, and the same reason still applied today even with the prosperity that began to propel them forward. To watch over themselves and each other, to protect each other from the pain that the outside world could give.

_ “We don't want Roger to starve himself to death because he can't properly boil an egg!” was what Freddie laughed out before ducking away from the swipe of Roger's pillow. _

_ “You don't know how to, either!” _

Oh, how it aches when they did everything they could but still failed. The encounter with that man on the sidewalk a few days later should have been a simple walk in the park. They've been here before- interviewers’ previously curious and polite gazes shifting warily once they put the pieces together, glass bottles shattering against the edges of their tables when the other bar patrons recognized them and knew the truth with a malicious glint in their eyes.

But something about that chilling laugh, those words laced with an edge that knew exactly where to poke and prod and earn a reaction-

_ “Come on, now, aren't you gonna light me on fire now?” it stung just as much as a spit. “Can't even bring yourself to do it, huh? Scared everyone's gonna find out and lock ya up? You should be.” _

For the first time in nearly twenty years since his exam paper burst into a brilliant orange, the fire inside Roger's chest died down, snuffed out like the bonfire on a harsh winter night. He felt helpless even after the man was out of sight, even if he was back in the comfort of their own flat.

Brian was already fast asleep, softly snoring on his pillow, when Roger decided to take the couch. Not that he had anything against his friend, he just needed to escape the invisible coffin that pushed his toes inward and forced him to curl into himself- a coffin that he built for himself.

Back and neck cramps poised to strike him when he woke up in the next morning, but exhaustion, as always, emerged the victor.

The realm of sleep softly lapped at him like waves careening into the sand when a soft voice spoke from behind-

“Roger?”

Without opening his eyes, he released a simple hum, an equally short and timid response to match Freddie's greeting.

The armrest above his head slightly dipped with a small, muffled creak. Gentle fingers stroked the blond strands of his hair. “Why aren't you in your room?”

He sighed and leaned into the touch. “I feel so trapped in there, Fred. N-Not because of Brian, no. It's just-”

His fingers rose to tug against the tresses that fell against his forehead, but warm hands covered them and pulled them away. He took a deep breath. “I think it's gone.”

“What's gone?”

“The fire, Fred. It should make me happy, make  _ you  _ happy. This time, you don't have to deal with me complaining about you spending too much time on that piano and ignoring the percussion.” A bitter laugh. “But, it's horrible. It's like I can't even breathe.”

“Don't.” He didn't realize Freddie's hands rested on his cheeks until dark brown eyes looked down at him with intensity. A fierce whisper- “Don't you dare think for one minute that I want you to lose your power, Roger Taylor. Yes, you're insufferable at times, but it's not worth losing a part of you.”

_ A part of you. _

He carried those four words with him into slumber, along with Freddie's soothing, wordless lullaby, peppered by a sweet charm here and there so he can fall asleep, and warm fingers carding through his hair.

And a small kindling of hope that someday those embers will glow and burn once more.


End file.
